


Heart's Companion

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Supergirl (TV 2015), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, pokedaemons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 19:13:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10837629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: In this world, people find the right Pokémon egg for them and hatch their very own pokédaemon, their most faithful companion, the one who reflects their soul. Touching another person's daemon is like touching their soul itself, an honor reserved only for the closest of friends, family and lovers.Leonard Snart and Mick Rory know this very well.(Kara Danvers doesn't because it's not a thing on her Earth. Oops!)





	Heart's Companion

**Author's Note:**

> I blame oneiriad for the idea.

Len's always been good at getting into places he oughtn't be.

His mother, before she died, used to tell stories of how he was no sooner home than crawling and no sooner crawling than in trouble. Her Ninetails, long and sleek and warm, quickly grew accustomed to being climbed upon by an eager toddler.

Len's father had married her for her Ninetails. She made a much better mascot for his informal business - egg-smuggling - than his own daemon, a Muk with a snarling demeanor. 

Egg-smuggling, of course, was incredibly illegal. Normal eggs were everywhere, of course, hatching perfectly regular Pokémon. But somewhere in the many eggs scattered around, each person was fated to meet the egg that their presence would cause to hatch, to meet their daemon - their heart's companion - at the proper time, typically around puberty. It's said that you get the Pokémon that reflects your soul, but everyone knows that people tend to hatch the eggs they see around them. A wooded area has Eevees and Caterpie by the dozens; a seaside village is filled with Psyducks and Tentacools; a mining quarry has more Geodudes and Diglets than they know what to do with. Scientists have long wondered: is it that people are affected by their surroundings? Or is it that the quantity of eggs laid in the surrounding area that makes it more likely that you'll encounter an egg of a specific type?

The rich and powerful prefer the latter theory. See, the rich want something new and different, something uncommon and rare. And, well, if what matters is what you're exposed to and all you ever handled were rare imported eggs, then eventually, that's what would hatch for you - or so goes the theory. 

And from that theory, there started the black market trade of egg-smuggling. 

Len had been content with the idea of finding his own daemon the natural way, thank you; he preferred the warm, generous love shared between his mother and her Ninetails, which she'd hatched at twelve, than the coldly efficient alliance of interest between his father and his Muk, hatched when his father had been nineteen and already involved in the egg-smuggling trade.

In fairness, Muks _had_ been pretty rare back then. Central tends to produce more Koffings and Weezings for pollution-type Pokémon, before they'd traded health for money and agreed to house the landfill for the local area in exchange for a hefty share of the local towns' tax revenue, most of which went into the pocket of the politicians and their wealthy buyers even as they exhorted their suffering citizens to 'pay their fair share'. Now, though, they have Muks a-plenty. 

Len wants a regular egg. He's fairly sure he's destined for an insect of some sort, a useless worm like his dad is always saying he is and his new step-mom agreeing - her Lickitung is rare enough, though not overly aware of normal person boundaries - but that was okay. Every Caterpie eventually becomes a Butterfree, right? 

His dad recruits him into the egg-smuggling work young. Len's not supposed to _handle_ the rare eggs, of course - no one who doesn't already have their daemon is - but some jobs can only be done by people with very small hands, who aren't afraid to wiggle through vents and open doors and take boxes from where they belong.

Len's always been good at going where he oughtn't be.

When he sees it, sitting there, plain old brown-speckled egg sitting surrounded by all the fancy hoity-toity eggs, with purple spots or green swirls or even gold sunbursts, Len suddenly _wants_. He wants it like he's never wanted anything in his life, not even safety or shelter or love. 

And so he slips it into his pocket before he takes the others to present to his dad.

"Good, good," his dad had said to the eggs, though Len had swelled with pride regardless. "Nice variety, good color. Bet you want one of these for yourself, eh, Len?"

"No, sir," Len replies politely. "I found one I liked."

Lewis' eyebrows had lifted and his fists had clenched. "You been lifting an egg you oughtn't be?"

"No, sir!" Len exclaims, and pulls out his egg: boring and brown and speckled, barely distinguishable from a hen's egg. 

Lewis looks at it and snorts. "Where'd you find that?" he asks. "The chicken coop?"

Len shakes his head, careful not to squeeze the egg too tight. "I just thought -"

"Forget it," Lewis says, and snatches the egg away. "You don't need an egg yet."

He puts it with the others, then frowns; it obviously doesn't fit with the beautiful patterns of the others. So he puts it away in his bedroom, instead. He's not going to sell the egg, not to the buyers; Len is relieved. He is only taking the egg away to punish Len.

"I'll sell it to the local finder's store," Lewis says, catching Len's expression. "It's not for you, my boy."

Len sneaks out of his room that night and goes down to the local chicken coop.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the chicken that pops an eye open to beadily stare at him when he reaches for a brown, speckled egg, common as anything. "But I _need_ it."

Len's not sure how he manages it, but the chicken doesn't make a noise as he steals back outside with the egg.

After that, it's a heart-stopping day of worry that Lewis has done what he'd said and sold the egg to the egg-finder's store, where Len is far too poor to afford the prices; but no, Lewis is far more concerned with moving his precious cargo. 

The beautifully colored load of eggs is a brilliant success and he returns home flush with the money of wealthy buyers. 

Len breathes a sigh of relief.

When Lewis Snart has money, he has a drink. A _lot_ of drinks.

Of course, when Lewis Snart has a drink, he starts off cheerful and then quickly starts getting angry about all the things he didn't like, and so by the time he's passed out, Len has accumulated another black eye and a few new bruises, but the chicken egg is safe.

He swaps it for the egg he found upstairs.

Len knows it's foolish - there's no way his father won't realize, won't be furious - but he feels compelled to. He doesn't know why, whether it's some instinct, some lingering trace of rebellion he just -

He wants _this_ egg.

His dad is drunk but not stupid - he figures it out the next morning and runs, storming, to Len's room, but by then it's too late.

"It's hatching," Len says, smiling down at the egg in his hands.

Even Lewis Snart in one of his rages will not interfere in a hatching of a daemon.

He retreats.

When Len emerges a few hours later, though, he's had time to brood on his perceived wrongs: a son not as obedient as he'd believed. No matter that he'd done the same thing to obtain his own egg, and with far less cleverness, too.

He reaches for Len. Len is lying at Lewis' feet, clutching at his arm, broken in the forearm, and his face is pale and his lip bleeding, before Lewis thinks to ask, "What type is it?"

Len swallows and his mouth opens to speak, but his throat is frozen by pain.

"Well? Speak up!" Lewis orders. "Or are you disobeying me again so soon?"

Len shakes his head. He whispers something.

"What's that?"

"Sandshrew," Len whispers. "But white."

"Then it's not a Sandshrew, you dolt," Lewis snaps, and marches up to see the creature, which had pull itself to the upstairs corridor and was watching the scene below with a dismayed mewl. 

Lewis stops.

He frowns.

The Pokémon certainly _looks_ like a Sandshrew, rounded head and little claws and scales and all, but it is definitely, indisputably white in color.

"Albino," Lewis eventually concludes, though the Sandshrew showed no signs of the pink eyes of that variation. "It's defective; no Sandshrew can hide in the sand with that color." He sneers. "Sandshrew are pretty common 'round these parts; but you can't even get a _common_ one right."

Len nods, and accepts this.

He takes the Sandshrew to the hospital with him.

"I don't care if you're defective," he whispers to it. "I'm defective, too. We match."

It's years more, when Len has since gone from that house of his childhood nightmares, that the Aloha Islands abandon their long-standing and fiercely maintained policy of isolation and open their doors to the curious outside world, and his Sandshrew - who will become a Sandslash at far too young an age - was revealed to be ice, not sand, and entirely right.

Len already knew about the ice. He didn't much care, though, as long as he had his beloved daemon with him.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The boys at juvie did not get the memo about the rarity of Len's strange ice-type Sandshrew. They have Mankeys and Machops and Tyrogues and one towering Rhydon - far too many to fight even if Len wasn't suffering from a type disadvantage. 

He scrambles to a high set of drawers and puts his Sandshrew on the top, where he'll be safe, and drops down. The other boys - robbed of a Pokémon to fight their own against - resort to using their fists against Len himself while their Pokémon hoot and howl in approval and try to knock over the shelf Len's Sandshrew is perched on.

Or, they do, until a gigantic Arcanine blasts them with a fireball.

The boys scatter, shouting, each running to scoop up their Pokémon and take it to the PokéCenter that the juvie maintained for the inevitable battles. It was better equipped than the nurse's office for humans, but that made sense - Pokémon were far hardier than humans, more prone to battle, and everyone knows that Pokémon only fight other Pokémon, never humans.

After all, a daemon fighting a human would involve _touching_ a human that isn't their human, and that's just _not done_ , not with daemons, not unless you're married or life-bonded or something. There's a reason unbound Pokémon petting zoos are so popular.

Len looks at the Arcanine, and the boy standing behind it. An Arcanine is an evolution, which at the boy's age means he's endured some terrible life-changing tragedy. 

Len's pretty sure his Sandshrew will evolve early, too.

"Thanks," Len says.

The boy studies him. "You saved your Sandshrew first," he says. "I respect that."

Mick Rory, it turns out, is a pyromaniac who lost his whole family to a fire he started, and the only thing he remembered to save was his Arcanine, then a Growlithe. The evolution had come a few days later, when the police finally confirmed that everyone else was dead.

Most people avoid Mick Rory, with his over-large premature Arcanine - six feet tall and eight feet long of muscle and fur and sharp teeth, dangerous and fierce and fiery, just like Mick.

Len likes Mick Rory.

When they meet again, a few years later, Len's Sandshrew has become a Sandslash, standing as high as his hip now, and he's got a reputation for being a good man to have on heists. 

"What happened?" Mick asks.

"Killed a man," Len says. He does not say he did not want to do it; he doesn't talk about how he vomited and cried. He does not tell of how his father came to beat him and Len shouted that he wouldn't take it any more, that he was leaving, leaving his father's house for good, or that his Sandshrew evolved, then and there.

He does not talk about how the sharp claws of his Sandslash had glinted in the light like steel and how his father's Muk cowered away from them for the very first time.

Mick nods and accepts him as he is, just as Len did for him.

They make good partners.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's not the first fire, nor the worst - that would come later - but it's the most meaningful to Len.

Mick shows up, his eyes wild, his arms badly burned and badly bandaged.

"Shit," Len says, jumping up, coming towards him. "What happened? I thought you said you had this one - did something go wrong?"

"Out back," Mick says, ignoring him. "Hurry!"

Len rushes out back, only to find -

"Oh, _no_ ," he says, horrified. "Your Arcanine!"

Arcanine is a fire type; it's meant to be immune to fire. Yet it is badly burned as well, lying whimpering on their stolen porch.

"Can it come inside?" Len asks Mick.

"It needs help," Mick says, looking lost. 

Len doesn't get it until he sees the way Mick is looking at his hands - hopelessly, sadly - and realizes that Mick is in too much pain to help his daemon out of the rain which has started.

"I -" Len says, but the offer dies on his lips. It's not a thing you _offer_. It's - it's something else. It's something you're _given_. "Mick -"

Mick looks at him. "Please, Lenny," he whispers.

Len swallows. "Okay," he says. "I'll get it inside, but then you go straight to the hospital, okay? I'll break you out of prison if need be, and I'll steal all the potions your Arcanine needs, but you need hospital help."

Mick nods his agreement.

For all that the Arcanine is strong, it is light, and Len can lift it with some effort. He helps get it inside the house, limping and whimpering the whole way. Electrical burn, it looks like, best that Len can tell; it was probably shielding Mick from the worst of the attack.

Len's teeth grit. He doesn't approve of this newfangled willingness to use Pokémon the same way you would a gun, on another human being. It's not right.

"Go," he tells Mick. Mick looks at him, mutely thankful, and goes.

Len stares at the Arcanine. Letting someone touch your daemon, your soul's other half, that's something. Leaving your daemon with them - that's a whole new realm of trust.

Len is humbled by it.

He gets the potions - the super strong ones he keeps for emergencies - and goes over to rub them into the Arcanine's fur. The fur is warm - the touch feels big, and open, and warm, everything that Len thinks of Mick, and it feels, too, like it loves and accepts everything that Len is.

Len very carefully avoids noticing that his face, as he works on the Arcanine's flesh, is wet.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mick isn't arrested, much to his own surprise.

Apparently, showing up horribly burned without a daemon in sight makes people think the worst, and not be as inclined to turn him in. 

He can imagine. If his Arcanine really was gone -

He shudders at the thought.

He can still feel her - she feels like a _her_ today, though most Pokédaemons are naturally non-binary, reflecting the often-mixed souls of their humans - in his mind. She's not in such terrible pain anymore, and that rebounds back to him, easing his own.

In fact, the little minx is starting to play it up a bit so Len will keep his careful brushing and rubbing. 

Mick can't blame her. It feels good. He'd been afraid, so afraid, even with Len, after that time when he was a kid, right after the fire, when the nurse had grabbed his Arcanine almost carelessly and he'd felt it all - her disdain for him, her coldness, her blame. But Len is nothing like that.

Len -

Len is a brisk wind on a summer's day, soothing and balming. He loves Mick so, so much more than he will ever be able to say. He has never touched another daemon before, not like Mick has; he thinks it too important.

Len hasn't even touched his sister's Eevee. 

He probably should. The Snart siblings would stop being convinced that the other secretly blames them for everything, if they did that.

Mick will have to suggest it.

He gets treatment at the hospital - thank god for Pokémon, Mick thinks; he doubts human medical technology would be nearly as advanced if everyone hadn't been so goddamn worried about their daemons that they devoted millions to Pokémon care, some of which transfers back to human medicine - and sneaks right back out again.

When he gets there, Len is fast asleep against Mick's Arcanine. 

She's growling happily, almost a purr. She gives Mick a look.

"Yes," Mick tells her. "We're keeping him."

It takes a few more years before Len works up the nerve to let Mick touch his Sandslash, but when he does, it's just as wonderful as they'd both thought it'd be.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mick is staggered by his loss.

Len.

_Len._

He doesn't know how to go on, so he just goes through the motions. He sees, now, the danger of letting someone so deeply into your heart that they could touch your daemon. He misses it, deeply, suddenly; misses the way Len knew all the right ways to scritch at the Arcanine, the way he would rest his head in its soft belly fur when he needed comfort, the way he would sometimes 'accidentally' bump into it when Mick needed a comforting touch that Len couldn't give in public. He misses the reverse, too: the slick coolness of Len's Sandslash that needed to be handled oh-so-gently to avoid disaster, just like Len; the way it would slowly uncurl, little by little, and nose at Mick's hand when it was willing to accept a hand on its soft belly; the way the daemons would play-fight, rolling around with each other. 

Mick's Arcanine whines with the loss of it.

Mick's not much better.

For lack of anything better to do, he carries on. Both of them do. Len gave his life for this stupid team to live free; Mick will not let them throw that gift away to reckless stupidity. 

But it's hard.

It's so hard.

They travel and travel and travel, and the first time they go back ever since they got back on the ship after Savage died, it's to fight _aliens_.

With the help of an alien, apparently. She's from another earth, one where aliens don't seem to have Pokémon daemon - she doesn't appear to have one of her own.

She knows the Flash - Barry, with his tiny quivering Pikachu that likes to hide in his ever-present backpack - and Cisco, whose Unown is more often in his pocket than not.

It really should've occurred to someone that she might not have realized that there _were_ creatures in there, and so never learned the proper etiquette as regards daemons. 

Which, presumably, is why when she floats up and shows off her heat vision - which is awesome - and Mick's Arcanine responds with a happy bark of flame, she sees it, her eyes go wide, and she shouts "FLUFFY!" before flying straight at it to give it a hug.

Mick's eyes go wide as her - her sheer _sunniness_ hits him like a on-rushing truck. Kara - and he has to think of her as Kara, now - is a glorious burst of bright light and joy, tempered but not defeated by her sorrows, a beacon of strength who wishes more than anything else to help others. She's strong-willed and she's stubborn and she's _angry_ , deep down, in a way she doesn't like to admit, but above all else, she's kind, and she loves, innocently and without asking for any return. 

Mick swallows, hard. He hasn't felt that since - since Len.

The rest of the room, of course, is staring at them in utter horror.

You don't _do_ that. You _never_ touch someone else' daemon without their consent. 

Kara pulls back, looking puzzled. "Hey," she says, "that's funny, I -"

Barry finally breaks out of his paralysis and lightning-quick moves her away from Mick's Arcanine. "Kara!" he yelps. "You can't do that!"

"Do - what? There was this feeling, when I touched Fluffy -"

"That's a _daemon_!" Barry yelps.

"What's a daemon?" she asks.

And that's when everyone starts talking, crowding around her with explanations.

"Hey, man, you okay?" Jax asks on his way over to talk to Kara.

Mick grunts in return.

Jax shrugs and keeps going.

Mick's secretly pleased he asked, though. He hangs back. 

She needs a proper explanation, and he was never good with words. 

The mission continues, Kara now blushing every time she looks at Mick - he tries to put her at ease the best way he knows how, with crude jokes and teases that he hopes show that he took no insult - but after a bout of brainwashing ( _again_. Will it never end?), she comes over to him.

"Skirt," he greets her.

"Mick," she replies, smoothing down said skirt. "I - are you okay?"

He blinks. "Is this about the Arcanine thing?"

"No! Well, yes, but - oh, I'm getting this wrong. I just - they explained that what I felt when I hugged Fluffy, it was you, somehow?"

Mick nods. "My soul," he confirms. "Glimpse into my personality. Sorry about that."

"Everyone says that," she says, scowling a little. "Like I'm the one who got the bad end of the deal or something! I'll have you know, I liked it. I liked _you_. But -" she hesitates.

"But?" Mick prods, blinking a bit. She _liked_ him? She’d seen his soul, and she still liked him?

"You're sad," Kara says. "You're so sad, and hurt, and none of your friends seem to notice."

"They ain't my friends," Mick replies automatically.

Kara nods. "Because they don't accept you," she says. "They use you instead of asking you."

Mick purses his lips. "No need to point it out."

"But it's _wrong_!"

Abruptly, Mick laughs. She scowls at him, hands on hips. "What?" she demands.

"No, just - you're exactly the same on the surface as you are inside. Angry as piss whenever you see something you think is wrong, but the nicest damn person beyond that."

She beams. "You think I'm nice?"

"You're real nice," Mick confirms.

"And you're sweet," Kara says firmly.

"I'm really not."

"Like a burned marshmallow."

"You take that back!" 

"Well, you are," Kara says triumphantly. "And Fluffy's not bad, either."

"Fluffy?" She'd mentioned it several times, but Mick wasn't sure what she meant.

"You know!" Kara points at Mick's Arcanine.

Mick opens his mouth to explain that you didn't _name_ daemons the way you would a pet, but then he just shakes his head and smiles helplessly. 

That's what anyone would do if faced with a ray of sunshine.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Len's been keeping low in this strange place as best he can. Everyone here assumes his Sandslash is some sort of toy or costumed dog, but his sharp-looking spikes and growls are enough to keep people away. 

Len has _no idea_ where he is.

He can only assume he's on some sort of horrific alternative universe where people don't have daemons. Either way, he's gotten in trouble with the law - picking up money for the necessities; badly planned, but he was desperate - and with such an identifiable companion, he needs to keep moving.

Oh, he wasn't foolish enough to let them _see_ his Sandslash, but police tend to see Len and immediately become suspicious. 

It's not until he ends up in National City - not far from his beloved but non-existent Central - that he sees his first meta. 

They call them aliens here, but surely that's just a clever cover story. If it wasn't for the Particle Accelerator being so public and affecting so many, Len's sure Barry could've pulled it off.

Hope rises in Len's breast. 

After all, superheroes come - in his experience - with plenty of tech support. And tech support...well, maybe he couldn't expect Cisco Ramon, but surely some explanation..?

He goes to investigate.

Supergirl, as they call her, is a formidable foe: speed, strength, heat-eyes, frost-breath.

Len would still bet on his cold gun, of course, but he left the damn thing with Mick before the Oculus had exploded and brought him...here. 

He's still studying her when his Sandslash pops it's head out from the sheet he's taken to covering it with - claims of Halloween made insistently enough can hide the fact that it's June - and makes a curious sound. It loves metas; finds the diversity of them delightful.

Supergirl is floating around proudly following her battle when she sees the two of them.

"Spikey!" she shrieks, and zooms straight at them. Len automatically reaches for his cold gun, only to remember it's gone at the last minute and curse, but she comes to a half a few feet in front of him. 

Len's eyes are narrow, he's still braced for impact, but she's beaming at him.

"Can I help you?" Len drawls with his best sneer.

"That's a Pokémon, isn't it?" she asks.

Len is normally good at controlling his expression, but this was such an unexpected blow, a reminder of all he's missed so much, that his eyes went wide. 

"It is!" she squeals. "I know you're not supposed to touch one without consent, but they're all so adorable. Oh, I wish I could have one - and this one has ice spikes! How cute!"

"You've...seen them before?" Len asks cautiously. 

"Oh, yes, when Barry - uh, I mean - the Flash -"

"You know Barry?!" Len exclaims. Did that guy know _everybody_? How much does he get around?!

More to the point, does _everybody_ know the kid's identity? Even in _other universes_?

Len's seriously going to need some new blackmail.

"Yes," Supergirl says. "He's very nice. He had a, uh...I forget the name. But Fluffy was _amazing_!"

"Fluffy?"

"Oh, yes, he was big - six feet tall - fluffy - he could breathe fire -"

Len's eyes go even wider. "Mick's Arcanine!"

"Oh, yes, that's the name!"

"Supergirl," Len says urgently. " _Can you get me back there_?"

"Oh, yes," she says. "No problem."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mick's not letting go of Len for a good long while, that much is clear. Mick's Arcanine is, if anything, worse; it keeps trying to nuzzle and lick and curl around Len's Sandslash, who is suffering these attentions with good grace and not a small amount of badly hidden relief. 

Len can't say he's suffering too much himself. 

"I'm so happy I could help," Supergirl - Kara - is saying.

"You're fantastic," Barry says.

"Yeah," Sara adds, running her eyes up and down the universe. "Really Super."

"I just wish I could have one," Kara sighs. "But I touched hundreds with Barry last time I was here, at one of the egg nurseries - no luck."

"Guess it makes sense," Cisco says. "You being from Krypton and all; you'd only be compatible with one from Krypton."

Kara sighs. "Just as destroyed in this universe, I'm afraid. All that's left are colorful - mostly green and red, unfortunately - shards of Kryptonite scattered everywhere."

"Green and red?" Len asks.

"Green, primarily. Red's much rarer," Kara explains. "It glows."

Len reaches into his pocket and pulls out a glowing green egg. "Like this, you mean?"

"Hey, be careful!" Barry yelps. "That stuff hurts her!"

"No," Kara says, frowning. "I'm not hurt, actually. No weakness, nothing."

She cautiously accepts the egg into her hands. It's only moments before she yelps in shock - the egg has started to vibrate.

"It's hatching!" Cisco exclaims.

"Where did you get that egg?" Mick asks Len.

"The Vanishing Point," Len says.

Mick gives him a fond look.

"What? They had a treasure room!"

"I know _that_ ," Mick says dryly. "What I'm amazed at is the fact that you _detoured there_ in the middle of a _rescue mission_."

"I had a bit of downtime, gimme a break."

Mick hums and pulls Len closer, which Len doesn't object to. Later, he'll lecture Mick about his dislike for public displays of affection again; for now, it looks like Mick needs the comfort more than Len needs his reputation.

"Oh, look at it," Kara coos. "It's a _Snakey_ , aren't you? An adorable little Snakey!"

"Isn't that a Dratini?" Cisco whispers to Barry. 

"I think so," Barry replies. "They evolve into a Dragonair, then a Dragonite."

"Aren't they _extinct_?"

"No," Barry says unconvincingly. "Just...very, very rare. And, uh, the size of a large house when they're fully evolved, from what I recall reading about them."

He shakes his head and looks at Len. "Where did you say you found one of _Krypton's_ Pokédaemon eggs, again?"

Len just smirks.

He's always been good at getting into places he oughtn't be.


End file.
